Chapter 6
Conor
I finish taping my hands, pulling the last strip tight enough that it bites into my skin, the sharp pressure grounding me as I flex my fingers once, twice, before reaching into Jaxon’s bag and pulling out the extra mouth guard.
My gaze shifts to him. He’s still holding the one he just used, his grip tight around it.
Something about that sits wrong in a way I can’t quite name. I don’t say anything about it.
Instead, I reach for the hem of my shirt and drag it up and over my head in one smooth motion, tossing it onto his bag before moving on without pause, unfastening my belt and pulling it free with a quiet metallic sound that cuts through the noise around us, dropping it on top of the growing pile.
My shoes come next, kicked off one at a time, followed by my socks, each movement slow, deliberate, and controlled. Even before I look at him, I can feel it. His attention.
It brushes over me cautiously at first, like he knows he shouldn’t be looking but can’t quite stop himself, and when I finally let my gaze drop, I catch him in the middle of it.
His eyes lift just enough, dragging over my body in a way that’s quick but not quick enough to go unnoticed, tracing the lines of my chest, the definition of my abs.
There’s something in his expression when he does it.
Not just curiosity, something warmer, softer, but uncertain.
The moment stretches just a fraction too long before he seems to realize what he’s doing, and then that faint flush creeps across his cheeks, coloring his skin as he looks away again.
Dropping his gaze, he goes back to staring at the floor.
Something in my chest shifts at the sight of it.
I tilt my head slightly, watching him for a second longer than I should, letting that moment settle between us instead of brushing past it.
The thought that follows comes quieter this time, but heavier. Does he like what he sees?
He’d better still be here when I’m done.
The thought settles deep, heavier than it should be, pressing into my chest with a weight I don’t have the time or the patience to examine right now.
So I don’t question it or try to pick apart my reactions to him.
Because there are more important things in front of me. And answers I still intend to get.
I slide the mouth guard into place, adjusting it with my tongue as I roll my shoulders slowly, feeling the shift in my body as everything starts to narrow and sharpen into focus.
Danny’s words echo in the back of my mind.
Henry’s the middleman. The more I think about it, the more it fits in a way that makes something cold settle in my chest. The constant push for more fights.
The way he’s been increasing the number.
Two or three before, now always three, sometimes four when there’s room to squeeze one more in.
The pieces are there, scattered but starting to align, forming the outline of something bigger than I first thought.
But there are still gaps, still things that don’t make sense yet.
I’ll get my answers. One way or another.
My eyes drift back to Jaxon again, lingering just a second longer this time, making sure he hasn’t moved, that he’s still exactly where I left him. Then I turn away from him and step toward the cage, the noise of the crowd rising around me as everything else fades out.
Tyson steps into the cage across from me, the chain-link rattling as the door slams shut behind him, sealing us both inside. The noise of the crowd swells, but it fades into the background the second I really look at him.
He’s a powerhouse. Shorter than me by a few inches, but it doesn’t matter. Not with the kind of mass he’s carrying. He’s thick and dense. Every inch of him built for impact. The kind of fighter who doesn’t need speed when he can just overpower anything in front of him.
Jaxon wouldn’t have stood a chance. Not tonight, especially in his current state. My jaw tightens slightly at the thought, but I push it aside just as fast. I’ll deal with Henry later. Right now I need to focus.
Tyson rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, already bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, loose in a way that tells me he’s confident. Good.
I step forward, slow and deliberate, letting my presence settle into the space between us, letting him feel exactly what he stepped into here. The cage feels smaller than it should. The air heavier.
The ref steps in, glancing between us, saying something I don’t bother to listen to. Because it doesn’t matter. The only rule is to try not to kill your opponent. Heavy on the try part. As soon as the ref steps away, the fight begins.
Tyson bares his teeth the second the ref steps back, that ridiculous fang-shaped mouth guard flashing under the harsh overhead lights as he lets out a guttural roar and charges straight at me like sheer aggression is going to win this fight for him before it even really begins.
For a split second, it almost makes me scoff.
He looks like an idiot. Not because he isn’t dangerous, he is.
But because he’s too focused on overwhelming me, too locked into the idea that brute force is enough, and in doing that, he’s already giving up the one thing that actually matters in a fight like this. Control.
I don’t move. I don’t react. I just watch him come at me.
Every heavy step he takes builds more momentum, more force behind what he thinks is going to be a decisive hit, and all I have to do is wait long enough to let him commit to it completely.
The distance between us closes fast, the air in the cage tightening as the crowd noise swells around us, feeding off the inevitability of impact.
And then, at the very last second, I move.
In one smooth, controlled motion, I pivot just out of his path, turning my body at the precise moment he can’t stop himself, and reach out just enough to redirect him, using his own weight and forward drive to send him crashing hard into the cage wall.
The impact reverberates through the meta.
A sharp, jarring sound that cuts through the noise as his body slams into it.
The force of it knocking the breath from him in a rough, involuntary exhale.
I don’t give him time to recover. I’m already closing the space again, stepping in behind him before he can regain his footing, my arm coming up and around his thick neck, locking in tight as I adjust my grip and settle my weight into him.
His size doesn’t matter now. His strength doesn’t matter.
I lock it in tight, adjusting my grip until there’s no space left for him to slip free, my forearm pressed firm against his throat as I anchor myself behind him and feel the immediate shift from confidence to panic in the way his body reacts.
He thrashes hard, all brute strength and desperation, his massive frame surging against mine as he tries to break the hold before it fully sets.
His thick as tree trunks legs brace against the cage as he pushes back, trying to drive his weight into me, trying to create enough force to knock me off balance.
I feel him reaching, searching for leverage, his foot sweeping back, aiming to hook my leg and take me down first, to reverse the position before it’s too late. Not happening.
I tighten my grip, adjusting just enough to cut off what little space he has left to breathe, and then I commit.
Throwing all my weight into the movement, I lift just enough to break his balance completely before driving us both down to the mat in one controlled, violent motion, the impact jarring through my body as we hit.
The second we land, I shift again. My legs come up and around him, locking in tight, securing him fully now so there’s nowhere left for him to go, no angle left for him to escape from, my entire body working in sync to keep the pressure constant and unforgiving.
He fights harder then. Desperation kicking in.
His movements become sharper, more frantic, his hands clawing at my arm, his body straining as he tries to pull in air that isn’t there.
I don’t let up. I don’t hesitate. I just squeeze.
And I don’t stop. Not when his movements slow.
Not when the fight starts to drain out of him.
Not even when his body finally goes slack.
I hold the choke a few seconds longer than necessary, my grip unrelenting as I wait, making absolutely sure there’s no sudden burst of resistance, no last-second attempt to fight back. Only when I’m certain, completely certain, do I finally release him.
I shove his limp body off me, letting it hit the mat with a heavy thud as I push up to my feet, not even sparing a glance for the ref or waiting for the official call. It’s already over. It was over the second I got my arm around his throat.
The noise of the crowd swells, but it barely registers, fading into the background as I roll my shoulders once, loosening the tension still coiled in my muscles. A waste of a fight.
My gaze cuts across the cage immediately, searching and finding.
Jaxon. Right where I left him. He’s watching me.
I like his eyes on me. When his eyes meet mine, relief hits sharper than it should.
He didn’t run or disappear while my back was turned.
Something dark and possessive settles low in my chest at the sight, something I don’t bother questioning right now as I step toward the cage door. Good boy.